


home is what i call your name

by maraudersourwolf



Series: thiam half birthday 2k18 [7]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Boys In Love, Established Relationship, Growing Up Together, M/M, Personal Growth, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 17:37:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15029714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maraudersourwolf/pseuds/maraudersourwolf
Summary: He’s trying to find something that went missing along the way and can’t yet reach.Doesn’t remember when it first started, if he’s honest.





	home is what i call your name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [osirismind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/osirismind/gifts).



> **THIAM WEEK | DAY 7: OH, THE PLACES WE GO**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> We can go many places along the way of our course in life.  
> From one home to another, from one city to other.  
> One country and the next.  
> Maybe a bar, maybe a store, maybe the bed.
> 
> I jumped in front of the bus and decided that the biggest place we can go,  
> is inside ourselves.
> 
> There was a song too.
> 
>  
> 
> This is for **Francis,**  
>  thanks for the smiles you have gifted me until this point.
> 
>  
> 
> This thing is a whole process on its own,  
> and I really hope you guys can understand it.  
> Because I'm an ambiguous fucker, it seems.
> 
>  
> 
> Barely to none beta'd.  
> Completely messy, not gonna lie.  
> I might not even make sense.  
> Enjoy!

 

 

He’s running away.

Or maybe not.

He’s trying to find something that went missing along the way and can’t yet reach.

Doesn’t remember when it first started, if he’s honest.

Maybe when he was eight and the yelling inside his head was louder than inside the four thin walls he called home. When a father he doesn’t remember and a mother that didn’t fill the role left a girl who still played with dolls and a boy who barely knew how to count to fend for their own. Raised by wolves, people say when you try to build a life out of nowhere with lego blocks as if it were enough.

But the only things him and a wolf had in common was to the need to survive and the ache to run.

So his tiny feet hit the ground over and over and over again until grass became pavement and then damp soil. Stepped over flowers and rocks and branches and bones because under him everything was dead but he was alive and it was the most free and safe he had felt in his young life.

Or maybe it was when he was ten and life tried to smile up at him but he had been scalded so hard that even the slightest breeze set an inferno inside his chest. When he learned that family wasn’t made of the same blood but from a different type of link. With a sister that hugged him to push nightmares away and a mother that wasn’t his own but that had love to spare. With two brothers that weren’t carbon copy but mirrored his image in ways he wished weren’t true.

When trainee wheels couldn’t held him in the right path of life anymore and he had to find balance on his own.

And he never felt more compoced than pedalling with all the strength of his body. Feeling the breeze hitting his face, his hands tight on the handlebars because even if everything was starting to slip away between his fingers, he still held the control of this little patch of time and space.

Perhaps it was when he was fourteen and the fire inside of him raged to explode, but he kept pushing it deep until it made some corners turn hollow. With everyone getting a place to fill, a mold to fit. But what is he supposed to do when his had been broken from the start? He’s standing in the middle of a crowded room with everyone is sitting and looking away but he still feels all eyes on him. The cracks inside of him spill despair and he’s desperate to glue back together pieces than have long ago been part of a mismatched set.

Everyone following a path and he doesn’t have the answers as to why the floor feels like quicksand even when he knows he’s on safe ground.

The wheels of the skate tracking over the pavement sounds closer to the screams that he swallows down because he’s afraid of end up empty. There’s the rush of the track, of his foot pushing out from a reality that’s pulling and dragging and he can feel the ties be loose for once.

Or his sixteen, that lacked the sweet of youth over his mouth and instead left the bitter aftertaste of growing up at the back of his throat. When the world turns a little smaller but his mind gets a little wider and there are words he should not listen, but swarm at the back of his head and leave static on his ears. When things change and shift and he finds himself trying to swim, but the tide is too high and he’s scared of drowning. When feelings grow like weeds and he’s so used to pick them away than when something pure spreads to the cracks, he thinks he’s going to break apart some more.

He is his own and he’s not.

There’s a wheel, four tires and a spare to count, that even if they don’t move, feels like being far away from a reality that he doesn’t want to check in. Fingers tap tap tapping over the steering wheel as a silent cry of help on morse code. An engine that he can turn on and off at will and not care for repercussions.

Or maybe now, an used bus ticket leading to a town that he doesn’t even know how to pronounce the name. When his twenty-three hit the door and he had to either eat or be eaten by teeth that are nothing more than prospects he doesn’t want to fill. When he got wings glued at his back but no one thought about checking if he was ready. He isn’t ready. He doesn’t think he will ever be ready.

Because the world is big and wide and scary all over again, but so are his dreams and fears, and he’s one step closer of walking into a free fall.

He doesn’t know what he’s searching, but it isn’t home.

Home is the little kid barely two years younger that he met at a neighbourhood that lacked the combination of colorful houses and tattered streets that he got used since his eyes opened for the first time. That helped shift a world of sorrows apart into the periphery of his life and reshape it on the palm of his hand, like play-doh or sand.

The one that ran behind him, screaming from the top of his lungs and letting the sun mix perfectly in the sky of his eyes. The embodiment of every ray of hope, vanishing the dark corners of his mind. That sat on leaves and helped snails cross the street. Taking his hand when he got tired, sometimes demanding piggy backs.

A kid that barely if kept his place sitting over the bike’s handlebar, squirming and falling against Theo’s chest when he opened his arms faking that each afternoon was eternal and flying was just a whisk away between believing and not. With legs kicking to a rhythm Theo didn’t follow, but made him think about walking on the moon. Dirty hands that pressed closer to his to not lose the steadiness they had, secret whispered on ears and pecks on the cheek as goodbyes.

Who sat down at the front of his skate, hugging his knees closer to his chest, and giving Theo the need to know how it felt to nestle in between his ribs. With bruises and scabs that felt too close to kisses and tentative touches at the back of his hand. Learning that closeness didn’t mean shoulder to shoulder, glued head to toe, but look at each other’s eyes and figure it all out.

The same that sang offkey, his legs propped up on the dashboard. Loud laughs that filled a space that quick became a world on its own. Playful punches and serious ones and lips meeting for the first time. Whispers with promises and tears cleaned away by eager lips. Foreheads pressed together and breaths mingling into one another. Hands holding tighter than ever and breathing erratically because how can something so beautiful find something so broken and decide to stay.

The one that had been by his side before he could even understand how big of a leap they were taking.

The only thing in a chaos that kept him on his feet.

Home’s the mane of crazy blond locks lying over his shoulder, stirring from time to time in a small attempt of tucking itself under Theo’s jaw. It’s the pink plush lips agape, with soft snores and half formed words that hold a conversation with themselves. The baby blue eyes behind heavy lids that blink too many times to keep themselves open, but stay always focused on him.

Is the second bus ticket, bunched in one of Liam’s hand, while the other interlock their fingers and spasm from time to time in a way that feels like checking if Theo’s still there by his side. As if there was some other place he would ever be.

“Are we home yet?,” Liam mumbles hoarsely and Theo finds himself marvelled at how the roughness of sleep mixes with the softness that’s natural on the other boy.

He hasn’t reach his place yet, his missing something.

Maybe he never will.

At this point doesn’t exactly know but it’s not something that truly worries him either.

Because he's letting himself root in a place that had been saved for him long before he could even get the gists of letting Liam do the same back. The boy’s heart an open space, warm and bright and endless shares of selfless love.

A balm to a sore soul.

A never ending beacon of hope.

No, he’s not searching for home.

“I’ve been for a while”

 

**Author's Note:**

> _Get a load of this monster_   
>  _He doesn't know how to communicate_   
>  _His mind is in a different place_   
>  _Will everybody please give him a little bit of space_   
>  _Get a load of this trainwreck_   
>  _His hair's a mess and he doesn't know who he is yet_   
>  _But little do we know, the stars_   
>  _Welcome him with open arms_
> 
>  
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9YgmMJJ34k4


End file.
